


Regrets: Backflipping

by Jassy



Series: Regrets [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 16:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9665120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jassy/pseuds/Jassy
Summary: Sam refuses to let the crossroads demon have his brother





	

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently the samdean archive is down. Thanks to those who let me know and were sweet enough to want this series put up somewhere else for folks to read. I make no promises about formatting, as I'm pretty fuzzy from a recent wisdom tooth extraction.

April fifteenth, 2008

Sam propped himself up on one elbow to stare down at his sleeping brother. Dean looked...so peaceful, these days. Sam couldn’t fathom it. It just did not compute. One week. Dean had only one week left, and then the hounds would come, and rip him to shreds, and he’d be in hell. And Sam would be in a hell of his own, as well. Knowing that Dean was suffering, that the suffering wouldn’t ever end, and that he’d gladly taken that suffering on for Sam. He hadn’t hesitated, Sam knew that. 

One week left. It had begun as two. Between fighting the demons that had been released and searching for a way to save his brother, Sam hadn’t allowed them any rest. Hadn’t allowed himself any rest. Dean had finally put his foot down. ‘No more’ he’d said. ‘There isn’t a way out, Sammy. It’s done. I’ve only got two more weeks with you. Please, let me enjoy them?’ What could Sam say to that except yes? What could he do except hole up with his brother and try to cram in as much loving as they were physically capable of expressing? And not just physically, but verbally as well. Dean had dropped all his masks and barriers, had laughed freely and cried freely and told Sam how much he was loved freely. 

He was giving Sam memories to hold him over for the rest of his life. What he couldn’t understand, or perhaps wouldn’t, was that they would never be enough. One couldn’t take two or three breaths and count them enough for life. He needed Dean with him always, every day, every night, just as much as he needed air. Sam couldn’t, simply could not, imagine doing one single thing without Dean right there. But Dean didn’t see that. He was at peace with his choice, because for him, it meant that Sam lived. Lived an empty, cold, mockery of a life, but lived nonetheless. 

Sam couldn’t share that peace. Couldn’t wallow in this time off from everything as Dean was. Maybe it made him selfish. Maybe it made him a highhanded bastard. But he simply could not accept that this was the way things would be. Dean wasn’t going to hell. He wasn’t going to leave Sam alone to grieve, every last person that he loved, the person that he loved the most, gone. He bent and brushed a kiss over slightly parted lips. Whispered, “I love you, and I will fix this somehow. No matter what I have to do.” And then he slid out of bed and dug his phone out of his discarded jeans. It had been turned off for the last week, so that Bobby and Ellen and the others couldn’t ruin this last, so precious time. He dialed a number that he’d memorized weeks ago, taken from a small, cramped entry in dad’s journal. Written in only because John Winchester had recorded everything in there for a time, and when he’d chosen to edit it, had missed it.

“Hello? My name is Sam Winchester. You met my father once.....he said you have power. That you can do things no one else can. My brother is in trouble.....that’s right. Yes, I’m willing to deal. For Dean? You can name your price......done. Where do I meet you? Right, I’ll be there in a few hours. You’re sure this will....it’s more than what I had before. Thank you.” When he hung up, Sam took a deep, deep breath. What he was about to do...it would either fix things, or it wouldn’t. But if it didn’t, he’d be wasting what little time that he had left with Dean. Oh, but if it worked....  
He went back inside the room to dress. When he was ready, he had to stop and just look at Dean. At the lines of worry around his eyes that had faded, at the relaxation of his jaw, at the easy way his hands were curled under his chin rather than fisted beside his pillow. Sam knew, quite well, that there were no weapons beneath Dean’s pillow. Apparently knowing what your fate was going to be made you fear death a whole lot less. What Sam wanted, what he hoped for, was to be able to put the fight back in his brother. He didn’t know what his contact could or would do, but he felt in his gut that it would be something. That it would work, whatever it was. It had to; otherwise he was losing what little time he had left over nothing.

May 2nd, 2001

It was surprisingly simple. One moment, he’s standing in a witch’s living room, then there was a dizzy swirly sensation, and then....bam. He’s sitting in a classroom, all eyes on him. Sam blinked, looking around and then down, finding a history book open on the desk in front of him. He checked his watch, noting that it was one that had died when he was nineteen. At the moment, it was telling him that it was one fifteen in the afternoon, on May the second. But what year?

“Sam? Are you alright?” Sam shot a look at the woman-teacher-that had spoken. He sort of remembered her. He ought to, seeing as how she’d written him a letter of recommendation for his scholarship.

“I’m...weird. What year is it?” Laughter, naturally, since this absolutely had to be highschool. The teacher, however, simply looked slightly alarmed.

“It’s May second, 2001, Sam. Your eighteenth birthday. Are you dizzy? Have you hit your head at all today?”

Sam smiled brightly at her and contemplated telling her the truth. He didn’t, though, because while she certainly wouldn’t believe it, his father and brother might, should they come around asking about him. “You know what? I think I’ve simply had an epiphany. Also, I’m legally an adult now. I don’t actually have to keep sitting here, listening to you-and by you, I simply mean all highschool teachers, with your merely average IQ’s-drone on. I’m smarter than all of you. I took the tests that prove it. So, if you’ll excuse me? I have a personal apocalypse to prevent.” He unfolded himself from behind the desk amidst shocked whispers and stares, and gathered his things together. He didn’t know what, if anything, amongst his papers and notebooks was important to him, and what was just class notes.

He strode out of the classroom, hearing the teacher (god, what was her name, anyway?) calling after him. He ignored her, knowing full well that there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. His birthday, which made him legally an adult. She’d aimed well, and he’d chosen well.

His notebooks, it turned out, carried vital information. Such as his locker number and combination, which he needed to retrieve his jacket. Which he needed, what with the late cold snap going on outside. His wallet had his current address, twenty bucks, and a condom, the latter no doubt Dean’s contribution. Sam shoved all of his things into his backpack, shrugged on the jacket, and headed home.

The apartment they were staying in for his senior year was small. And also, crappier than most. There were for real puddles on the floor, from leaking pipes or the roof or something. One could not, in fact, have a candle lit anywhere near the windows. They didn’t open, but they sure leaked. The carpet was beyond threadbare, and the walls were so stained that Sam had no clue what the original color had been. The refrigerator worked only sometimes, so the food was mostly canned and bagged stuff. Which worked well for him, since he was leaving by the end of the day, and wouldn’t have to throw anything out. He couldn’t recall how long it was until his father and brother returned from the hunt they were on, but he knew it was a few days more, at least.

Almost nothing was in the apartment, really. A couple of weapons, and his clothes, and that seemed to be it. Of course, most of their combined belongings would be with his brother and father, including all of the good research books. It didn’t take him long at all to pack up what he intended to keep, and what could go to the resale shops. At the last minute, he recalled that there had been a stash of emergency money, hidden in a crack in the wall behind the broken refrigerator, and until now, never touched. He hadn’t needed it the first time around. He took it now, finding two hundred bucks. It was a start. 

Packed, he left the apartment behind, headed across town. His duffel he stowed in an alley, hidden beneath some empty plastic crates. The bar wasn’t precisely hopping, but there were a few people inside. Regulars, and die-hard drinkers by the looks of them. Sam’s fresh from the school room face earned him a few glares, and one or two interested once overs. He was carded, naturally, but he had about six different i.d.’s that stated he was well old enough to drink. Carrying a beer over to the nearest pool table, he let his appearance and deliberately clumsy handling of the cue attract him a few takers.

When he left a couple hours later, he had an extra couple hundred dollars in his pocket, and had left some very cranky drunks behind him.

He made the calls when he was already on the bus. The first to Bobby, letting him know that Sam was on his way, and could he please be there to pick him up. The second he made to Dean, which was somewhat more difficult. Dean wanted to know why, what was going on, was Sam possessed? He sounded so young, and so very irritated. Their father’s voice was in the background, deep and rumbling with his own anger, just the perfect reminder of how tense things had been before he’d left. Sam couldn’t really blame either of them, even as he soaked up the sound of their voices. He’d fought so hard to be allowed to finish his last year at one school. Said some things that hadn’t been what one would call nice. And from their point of view, the second he turned eighteen, he takes off. Just a few weeks shy of graduation, yet! Sam would be pretty pissed off in their position, too.

Fortunately, he had the outline of a plan to soothe them when they eventually caught up to him at Bobby’s, and at least a few days to flesh it out. The first step was going to be convincing Bobby that no, really, he’s a twenty four year old man trapped inside an eighteen year old’s body. Not easy, but certainly doable. If nothing else, he knew he could call Darla. There would be spell residue, she’d told him. And certain things, like his soul being older than his body, would be visible until he had certain protections on himself.

The bus ride to South Dakota was long and boring. Honestly, Sam preferred the long drives with Dean in the Impala. At least he could be reasonably certain of decent conversation or, if Dean was in an especially juvenile mood, at least a variety of music. The only thing to be said for this particular ride was that he was solicited by the middle aged Hispanic woman. Or possibly been offered adoption, he wasn’t entirely positive on that one. 

Bobby was waiting for him when he got off the bus. Sam hefted his bag onto his shoulder and met his eyes, both surprised and not when Bobby took a half step back. He had a feeling that holy water laced beverages were in his future. He just hoped he could make sure it was beer, and not juice or soda. “Hey, Bobby.”

“Sam,” Bobby greeted him, entirely too cautiously. “Your daddy is in something of a tizzy.”

“I’ll bet. I could hear him bitching when I called Dean to let him know where I was going.”

“Well, c’mon. If we got business, the middle of the bus station isn’t exactly the place to be doing it.” Bobby paused. “Is it?”

“No, not really.” Nothing else was said on the drive back to the yard. The first test, Sam knew, was the dog outside. He didn’t even know if he could pass it, stinking of magic as his soul was. But he still walked up and boldly stuck his hand out to scratch behind his ears, whispering, “hey, Rumsfeld. Let’s see if we can’t make things go a little better this time around, huh?” The dog looked up at him with big, doggy eyes, simply happy that someone was petting him and not demonically possessed. 

“Sam?” Bobby gestured at the house, slightly less tense around the eyes. Sam thought it looked good on him. Rather than the perpetually haunted expression the war would put on his face. “Let’s get a couple beers, and you can tell me what brought you all the way here.”

“Other than your beautiful face?” Sam quipped. Bobby’s eyebrows shot up, and Sam remembered that, for the most part, he’d been sullen and silent whenever they’d had to see Bobby for something. “Right. Lead on.” 

There were no salt lines that Sam could see when he walked in. No visible iron, other than the tools for the fireplace. This house was just that, a house. Cluttered with too many books and old furniture, but it wasn’t yet the fortress it would become by default. Sam plopped down in the middle of the sagging couch, fingers automatically tracing where a blood stain had been. Or would be. Tenses were gonna be a bitch, he could just tell. Bobby disappeared for a minute, only to return with a couple of beers. Smirking inwardly, Sam raised his in a mocking toast and took a long swallow. “Satisfied?” he asked.  
“I don’t know what you mean. I haven’t heard a reason for you bein’ here yet.”

“I meant, are you satisfied that I’m not a demon. The dog, and the holy water in the beer.” Sam stared at him square on until he dropped his gaze. “I mean it, Bobby. Are you satisfied that I’m not a demon?”

“Yeah. Although I wanna know how you know about the holy water.”

“I’ll get to that. My next question; do you know Darla Waters?”

“The witch?” Bobby straightened, eyes narrowing on him. “Yeah, I know her. She’s good at what she does. But she always demands a high price.”

“If what you want isn’t worth the sacrifice, then it isn’t worth her time,” Sam said, quoting. “You’ll probably wanna call her. She’ll be able to verify at least part of my story. And you’re gonna have a really hard time believing it.”

“Let’s hear it, first. The less I have to deal with that woman, the better. She gives me the creeps.”

“She’s got power.” Sam drained his beer and set it aside. Fixing his eyes on Bobby, he began. He started with leaving for college, and went through all the time until he went to the witch. He spared only one or two private details, like his true relationship with Dean, but told him everything else. A lot of emotions passed over Bobby’s face; disbelief, fear, pity, sorrow. When he was finished, he got up to help himself to a second beer while Bobby processed. When he sat back down, the other man studied him closely.

“Sam...if this is true, and not just some bizarre dream you had, what you did....”

“Don’t,” Sam snapped. “Don’t you even try to lecture me on how wrong it is to mess with the timeline and the natural order. Dean going to hell is not the natural order of things. It wasn’t meant to be, and I’m not gonna let it happen. It was either this, or I was going to open the door to hell and go get him out myself. And fuck whatever got out while I was at it.”

“You’d really do that. You’d open up a door to hell, damn the entire world, just to save one person.” Bobby shook his head. “Well, there goes any doubts that you’re really a Winchester. Single minded bastards, the lot of you.”

“Yeah, well, let’s just be glad that my single mindedness took a less destructive path. So you believe me, then?”

“Well, I’m gonna want Darla to come and make sure of it, but for the most part, yeah. Your daddy never told you about Ellen and the Roadhouse, for one thing. He hasn’t been back there in years. And you’ve got a lot of details there, Sam. A lot of damn details.”

“I have a lot of memories, Bobby.” Sam looked away, swallowing down grief. He didn’t need it anymore. His loved ones weren’t dead. And they wouldn’t be, not now. He was going to fix things. “While you make the call, I’m gonna need a notebook. I want to write down all the hunts that I can remember. With a lot of them, we should be able to prevent a lot of people from dying.”

“You do that.” Bobby dug, seemingly at random, in a pile of books and magazines, and came up with a bent, coffee stained notebook. He tossed it at Sam before leaving the room.

Sam had a pretty good memory. Not perfect; if he were Dean or dad, he’d have exact dates and times and freaking coordinates all on the tip of his tongue. But he could remember names and cities and at least the month and year that things happened. Many of the hunts they could do now, just drive to the various cemeteries around the country and salt and burn the bones. Find the various lairs of the creatures and shoot them before they have a chance to wake up and kill anyone. Like that wendigo, for instance. Surely they could find just where, exactly, in the abandoned mines the thing was sleeping and just–torch it. Before it could eat any random campers. Roy had been kind of a dick, sure, but that didn’t mean he’d deserved to die.

Time got away from him while he catalogued all the hunts that he could remember. He’d arrived at night, finished his story sometime around midnight, and the next thing he knew, Bobby was waving a hand in front of his face as the sun broke over the horizon. “Dude, what?” he snapped, jerking back from the sudden intrusion.

“Darla should be here in about an hour, Sam. Why don’t you give that a rest, maybe get something to eat? None of it’s happening today.”

“Bobby...damn it.” Sam scrubbed at his face, letting the notebook fall. Bobby was right. And if Sam got things right this time, half of them wouldn’t happen, since the door would never be opened, and the demon army would never make it into this world. “I need a shower. And food. Do you trust me in your bathroom, insane as I sound?”

“If you’re telling the truth, I’ll be trusting you with the fate of the world. I think my bathroom is safe.”

“Thanks.” Sam staggered slightly when he got up, long legs having gone numb from being curled under him for who knew how long. The shower was a startling experience; he’d forgotten how skinny he used to be. He hadn’t quite finished growing up, and wouldn’t start growing out for another year or so. For now, he was all knobby knees and jutting elbows, with a thin layer of wiry muscle over all. 

The thing that he liked most about Darla, he found, was how matter of fact she was. She showed up after his shower and meal, eyed him up and down, and pronounced him ‘an old soul in a child’s body’. Then she’d sketched a couple runes on his flesh, told him to stop wasting time and get himself tattooed, and left. Sam obligingly brought Bobby a bottle of whiskey to help the older man over the shock before finding and curling up in bed.

It was noon when he made himself get up again. Bobby was sitting out on the porch, the whiskey traded for beer, and Rumsfeld snug against his side. “You okay?” Sam asked him quietly. 

“Am I okay? You show up, telling me that we’re headed for all out war with demons, and expect me to be okay?” Bobby laughed, sounding a little drunk, a little bitter. A lot afraid, although the other man would shoot you before admitting to such a thing.

“We’re going to stop that, Bobby. You and me, we’re going to stop a lot of things from happening.”

“And what the hell do you care, Sam Winchester? You only came back to save your brother!”

“Yeah. But how quick will he get himself killed trying to fix all the rest of that stuff?” Sam crouched in front of him, turning the full force of what Dean had always labeled his ‘puppy eyes’ on him. “Bobby, listen to me. We’ve got years before the door to hell gets opened. And if we can find a way to kill the yellow-eyed demon before then, that’s never going to happen. I would so love to kill him before he starts in with his death matches. I mean, you put five people in an enclosed area, tell them only one gets to leave alive, and they’ll eventually tear each other apart. No matter how good they started out as.”

“Yeah, kid. I know that. You know what we should do? We should tell your daddy.”

“No. No way. We’re not telling him or Dean about this. They’ll look on the war as some kind of failure on their part, Bobby. Even though it hasn’t happened yet.”

“Then how the hell do you intend to explain you suddenly up and running here?”

“Come on, and I’ll show you.” Bobby was more than a little unsteady on his feet on their way inside. But his eyes were steady and mostly clear, and his hands didn’t shake when Sam dug out and passed him a particular book, opened to a certain page. The Key of Solomon contained more than just warding symbols, although Sam would be making good use of a couple of those, too. The page he had open contained a spell that would detect even the faintest of demonic taint. Such as demon blood, dripped into the mouth of an infant years earlier.

“What’s this for?”

“Don’t you get it? That fucker made me drink his blood when I was a baby.” The idea still curdled his belly, but there was little to be done about it now. “We tell dad and Dean that I dreamed of a man with yellow eyes dripping blood into my mouth. We tell him that I was seriously freaked out, and made you perform this spell. We test my blood. Trust me, it comes back positive.” He verified that on his own, never letting on to anyone what the demon had shown him about the night his mother died.

“And you don’t think that will make your daddy doubt who you are? John can be pretty fanatical, Sam.”

 

“I know how my dad can be. I know he won’t hurt me.” And never mind that he’d had plans of killing him, should he ever go darkside. That was just–the way they worked. What any of them would do if they got bitten by a werewolf or something. From the way Bobby eyed him, the other man knew those things, too. “He’s my father, Bobby. He’ll do a lot of things, but he’s not going to hurt me just because a demon dripped its blood into my mouth when I was a baby.”

“Okay. Okay. So you tell him you had this dream, and came to me. We did the spell and found out it was true. What then?”

“We’ll need the Colt from Elkins, and once we have that...we use my blood to summon that fucker and shoot it dead between the eyes.”

“And we know the location of the magic gun...how?”

“I don’t. But you do.” Sam grinned cheerfully. “C’mon, Bobby. You know everybody. Of course you know Elkins. Or at least, of him. You’ve heard the rumors that he has this special demon hunting gun, and for this, you think they’re worth checking out.” Bobby gave him a wide eyed stare. “What? You think I wouldn’t think something like this through? This is my future, my family’s future, riding on this shit. My father had to claw his way out of hell to see this through the first time. My brother had to sell his soul for me to be there. Now, we are going to do this, we are going to lie right to my father’s face about how we know this shit, and we are going to kill it. My father, and my brother, are going to be free from this fucking quest. And then I’m going to take the Colt, and I’m going to summon me a crossroads demon, and I’m going to kill her. Just to be on the safe side. Is this all clear for you?”

Bobby held up his hands, backing down. Sam backed away, realizing only then that he’d gotten right up in Bobby’s face. He felt bad for that, he really did. But he needed Bobby’s backing if his plan was going to work. Dad wouldn’t believe an eighteen year old him on something like this, not without someone like Bobby to say it was true. So much was riding on this, Sam couldn’t afford to have Bobby being reluctant. Not just for his family, but for the whole freaking world. Sam didn’t deny that that was a happy side effect of what he wanted. Did that make it any less valid? He wouldn’t sacrifice his family to save the world, but he would sacrifice the world to save his family. But here, and now, he’d be saving both.

He walked away before things could degenerate even further. There were other things that he needed to do. Like get his tattoo. He didn’t actually like the idea. Hated the thought of any symbol marking him for good, like some kind of brand. But the last thing he wanted was some demon or psychic getting into his head and seeing all his knowledge of a dead future sitting there. That crossroads bitch, for instance, could try to use it to claim Dean here and now if she should learn of that deal. At least, she might right up until Sam killed her, too.

Sam truly had no idea what Bobby did while he was gone. Certainly he drank some more. Sam supposed speaking to a refugee from an apocalyptical future could make one pretty thirsty. Possibly he called Sam’s dad to deliver the story of the dream over the phone, where he wouldn’t have to meet anyone’s eyes. Not that Sam thought he really had a problem lying, as such. But Bobby seemed to think that Sam should tell them the truth. And he really really couldn’t. Because they wouldn’t see the baby of the family stepping up to do his part. No, all they’d see were the mistakes, the places they zigged when they should have zagged, and they’d be all guilt ridden over things that hadn’t happened yet. Because they were Winchesters, and nobody did guilt like a Winchester did. Even when the guilt was so completely illogical, over things that hadn’t happened, and of which they had no memory.

As for him, he ‘borrowed’ Bobby’s truck to head into town. He had to get a couple tattoos, and the sooner the better. Fortunately, the only ‘parlor’ around for a couple hundred miles was a decent one. Disposable needles and autoclave, and the man doing the work actually talented. Steve, was his name, and he didn’t bat an eye over the strange symbols that Sam wanted inked into his skin. Simply verified his age and his money, then pushed him into the seat. 

They hurt. Like, a lot. Sam had been injured before, too many times to really count. But getting the tattoos was different; a steady burning ache sort of pain, and oh yeah, just exactly like a needle being driven repeatedly into his flesh. But when it was all done, he had the symbols he needed, one on the back of his neck and one at the base of his spine. They would, collectively, keep anything from reading his mind, examining his spirit, or possessing his body. Ever.

Maybe he could even convince his dad and brother to get at least one of them. Surely they’d see the wisdom in making certain they’d never get possessed? But, then, it was an awful lot like magic for his father. John Winchester hated things even remotely smacking of the occult. The closest he’d get were the exorcism rites that they sometimes had to use, which he always excused as being a tool, nothing more, and just like holy water. He’d always hated when Sam pointed out the elements of ‘spell’ the rite contained, the specific words and the potion otherwise known as holy water. That’s what a rite was, really, a spell. 

Sam would probably refrain from pointing that out in the future. He’d seen his father dead, burned his body and everything. Somehow, driving him nuts purely for the sake of driving him nuts, just didn’t have the same appeal that it used to. Maybe someday, if he can ever forget the image of his dad’s shroud-wrapped body going up in flames...

Bobby was cleaning up when he returned late that afternoon. Sam’s whole body ached, probably from how rigid he’d held himself during the tattooing. All he wanted was a shower, which he couldn’t actually have for a couple days while the damn things healed. Rather than dwell on it, he pitched in, helping Bobby to shift stacks of books around and around, creating a whole new look to his home that wasn’t, actually, cleaner. It didn’t offer even the illusion of more space, but it did seem to make Bobby feel better. Sam was a little late to the party in noticing that the books on top? The ones most readily to hand? Were all the more practical guides to killing demons. Sam raised an eyebrow at the other man.

Bobby shrugged. “You’ve changed things, Sam. You don’t know if you’ve really prevented the war...or brought it on early. Either way, it never hurts to be ready.”

Sam looked away, out the window. “No, that’s true. Have you called dad yet?”

“Yeah. He’ll be here tomorrow morning. Your brother, too, of course.”

“Of course.” Sam smiled faintly, remembering. “You know, once I was old enough, you couldn’t get Dean to stay behind for anything. Always heading off with dad on his hunts, both of them shaking their heads over me preferring to go to school. Two peas in a pod. When he came to get me from Stanford...I was so surprised to hear that he’d been working solo. And he acted so outraged that I would doubt that he was allowed. After all, he was twenty-six!” He shook his head. “Like twenty-six will ever be all that old to dad. I always figured they’d be joined at the hip forever.”

“Funny. To hear your daddy talkin’, it’s the two of you that’re joined at the hip,” Bobby snorted. “Can’t call for one without the other appearing with ‘im. Near to drives him nuts.”

“Nah. At this age? I drive Dean up the wall. Snotty and self-centered, apparently. I outgrew that, but he just never outgrew the need to take care of me.” Sam turned his face back to meet Bobby’s gaze again. “I don’t know how I appear to you, Bobby. But whatever else you might think, never doubt that I’m committed to preventing the war. I lived a year of it; I know just how fucking ugly it will be. I have a list of dead as long as my arm that I’ll never actually get back, even with starting over. Starting with the woman I was going to marry. But I know them, I remember them, I grieved for them. And the only comfort I get is knowing that now? They’ll actually live out their lives, better off without me in it.”

“But you’ll have your father and your brother back,” Bobby pointed out. “That’s gotta count for something.”

“Sure it does. But even that...they see me as a boy. Not yet a man. The first time, I finished growing up well away from them. Four years of separation that won’t happen, and I have no idea how we’ll all evolve this time around. For all I know, once the demon is dead, dad’s gonna want to take up pig farming somewhere, and Dean’s gonna want to move into a bungalow on a beach in Malibu.” Sam shrugged. “The hunts I can be sure of. It’s the people that I can’t predict. And I’m different, Bobby. Will they actually still want me around?”

“Sounds to me like you’ve made a career of worryin’ over nothin’.” Bobby clapped him on the back. “You need to just settle yourself down, Sam. You’ve got a plan. A good plan, that will deliver your dad’s vengeance on a platter. Your brother’s soul is gonna stay safe. All three of you will be free, Sam.”

“So you’ll help? I mean, you’re okay with helping, and hiding this from my dad? You didn’t seem like it earlier...”

“Well, I’ve had a good long think. And you’re right, knowing everything that you told me would just drive your daddy nuts. He’s better off not knowing. Go get some sleep, now. They’ll be here pretty early in the morning.”

Sam nodded, and obediently found the sagging guest bed that Bobby had. And then spent over an hour trying to find a position that he could sleep in that didn’t press on the fresh tattoos. He was used to sleeping on his back, and having to sleep mostly on his stomach was not fun. It would be easier, he thought tiredly, if Dean were there with him. He could always sleep curled around Dean. 

Morning announced itself with a familiar rumble, growing closer and closer, until it cut off right outside his window. Then came the equally familiar creak of heavy doors, which were slammed with no regard for who might still be sleeping. And that was...fine, actually. Sam shot off the saggy bed and raced to the front door, eager as a child all of a sudden. Dean and their dad were striding up to the house, steps in sync, and their attitudes a matched set of ‘we just kicked ass, and we’ll do it again’. Dean’s held that hint of ‘and I loved it’ that John’s didn’t, but other than that, they were pretty much identical. He hadn’t had any of that when he’d come for Sam at college. Sam didn’t know if it was his leaving or John’s that had taken it from him, but he was determined that Dean should get to keep that sense of fun. One of them should get to enjoy his life like that, and Dean deserved it more than anyone.

But it was John who really took his attention. The last time Sam had seen him, he’d worn one of those looks of peace, right before he’d moved on to whatever came after death when you didn’t hang around to be a pain in the ass. To see him again, alive and squinting up at the house, lines of irritation around his mouth, so alive it almost hurt.... Biting back some very unexpected sobs, Sam burst out of the house and raced to meet them, slamming into his father. “Dad. God, Dad...” he muttered, face buried in his dad’s shoulder, fingers twisting in the worn fabric of his denim shirt. He could feel how his dad froze and then stiffened, and the clumsy back pats hurt. That their relationship was so bad that they couldn’t even hug...not that it was all his fault, but it was at least half his fault.

John only lasted about a minute of his clinging like that before very firmly setting him back. “Sam, you better have a damn good reason for this stunt of yours. The school called me, did you know that? To tell me how you just up and walked out. And then you come all the way here, bothering Bobby....”

“Hold up, John,” Bobby called from the house. He looked kind of pissed, kind of tired as he walked out to join them, Rumsfeld a wary presence at his side until they’d all been thoroughly sniffed. “I think you’re bein’ a bit harsh. Sam had a good reason for everything that he’s done. Why don’t you let him tell you, before jumpin’ down his throat?”

John immediately started to bristle. He’d never taken well to any criticism, real or implied, over how he raised them. That they were both now technically adults wouldn’t change that. Sam stepped between the two, earning him rolled eyes from Dean. He stifled a grin, knowing his brother was thinking he was just being stubborn. Which, fair enough, he kind of was. “Hey. Dad, please. Don’t fight, okay? I really...I need your help, and Bobby’s.” And that, more than anything else, got John’s attention. Sam licked his lips, hoping this would be believable. That his fear of getting this wrong would translate to his dad as just...fear. “I had this dream. I was laying on my back, and I couldn’t really move. I mean, I kind of could, but I didn’t really have much control, y’know? Like my arms were made of jelly or something. And there was this...man, this figure, above me. He had eyes that burned. And he cut himself, and he dripped the blood into my mouth, and even that burned, in my mouth and all the way to my stomach.” Sam licked his lips, eyes flicking from his father to Dean. “And then he was gone, and everything around me was hot, hotter than an inferno. I didn’t...I really didn’t think a whole lot of it. I mean, a nightmare, right? It’s not like I’ve never had those before. But I could still taste the blood on my lips, and smell fire in my nose, and the whole dream kept coming back to me all day long. I mean, really coming back to me. In the way that you’re totally not aware of what’s really around you. It scared me like nothing else ever has.”

“There’s something to his dream, John,” Bobby put in quietly. “I tested his blood. Something demonic got into him and left its mark.”

Right before John turned away from them, his face looked bleak, and resigned, but not particularly shocked. Sam stared at his back. His own shock had to be written across his face, a mirror to Dean’s horror. “You knew? Dad, please, tell me you had no idea that some demon fed me his blood. Tell me the thought never occurred to you.”

“I didn’t know what to think, Sammy. Back then...that night. There was blood on your head, and on your mouth. Some of it was red, from your mother. Some of it, what I wiped off of your lips, was black. Like old blood. And you didn’t stop crying for so long...we’re talking days, here. Weeks.” He turned back, face a pale, blank mask. “I didn’t know, Sammy.”

“But...you suspected.” Sam didn’t have to fake the look of betrayal on his face. Not five minutes being reunited with his father and he already wanted to punch him. 

“But I didn’t know. And until I did, you didn’t have to worry about it.” He stopped looking at Sam then, carefully didn’t look at Dean, and turned to Bobby. “So we’re definitely talking demon here? You’re certain of that?”

“Yeah,” Bobby bit out. “I suspect that Sam was somehow remembering that night. For that to happen, this thing has to be pretty damn powerful.”

Sam just–tuned them out. He turned around and walked away. His dad would never apologize, and realistically, Sam would never tell him why he should. He’d made that choice and he was going to stick to it. But it still hurt to know that his father had known something like this. Had known that he’d been, in any way, contaminated and hadn’t said a word. And had left him to be blindsided, there at the end. It was entirely possible that his dad had no idea how dirty he felt, knowing what was in his body. Nor how the fact that John had kept quiet somehow made that worse, made him feel like he really wasn’t to be trusted. It wasn’t logical. His dad had probably been trying to protect him in some way.

He found himself pretty deep in the yard, surrounded by mounds of junk on all sides. He was far enough away that he couldn’t hear anything from the house, and so the reverse was probably true as well. He eyed the remains of some rusted out vehicle–four door sedan type, that was all he could tell about it anymore–and said, “what the hell!” He spun, and his foot shot out, and connected with a satisfying force against the side of it, the shock reverberating up his leg. He did it again, and again, venting his frustration on the hapless, unfortunate vehicle. 

“Yeah, man, I hate Fords myself,” Dean commented, startling Sam into whirling around in a defensive crouch. “Easy there, Sammy. I just wanted to see how you’re doing, is all. You seemed pretty shook up when we got here.”

“How I’m doing? I’m fine. I’m so fine, I should be living in Fineville,” Sam snapped. “How do you think I’m doing, Dean? I find out I’ve got fucking demon blood in me, and then I find out that my own fucking father knew! If I were a tad more suicidal, I’d be kicking his face in instead of a car door.”

“Look, Sam, I know it sucks, what he did,” Dean started. Sam held up his hands, stopping his words.

“Don’t. I don’t need to hear you make excuses for him, and I don’t want to hear you apologize for him. What I need to hear is that you’re still my brother, and what I want to hear is that you still love me.” Dean crossed the area separating them in a couple strides and pretty much yanked him into a hug. Sam wasn’t about to turn that down and worked his arms around Dean, clinging tight. Some part of him still half afraid that his brother would be taken from him at any time now.

“Jesus, you’re such a little idiot, Sammy. You really think that there’s anything in the world that’s gonna change how I feel about you? You’ll always be my pain in the ass little brother, and I’ll never stop, uh, y’know.” Dean cleared his throat. “I’ll always feel the same way about you, no matter what.”

“Contrary to popular belief? It doesn’t actually make you a girl to say the words ‘I love you’, Dean. Here, I’ll go first; I love you.” He rubbed his chest against Dean’s shamelessly, but kept his hips angled away. He didn’t honestly think Dean was ready for that. “See? No tits.”

“Yeah, but you’re still a little bitch.”

“And you’re still a jerk.” Sam let him pull back, stuffing his own hands in his pockets to keep from holding on. “Thanks, man.”

“Dude, you’re an idiot. But you’re my idiot, so what am I gonna do?” Dean grabbed him by the back of the neck for an affectionate shake. He frowned as Sam yelped and jerked away. “Dude, what did you do? Is that a bandage....”

“I got a tattoo, alright? And it’s pretty fucking sore, so I’d appreciate it if you, you know, wouldn’t squeeze the crap out of it.”

“You got a tattoo?! Jesus, Sam, you’re eighteen for less than forty-eight hours and you’re just rebelling all over the place! Let me see,” Dean demanded, forcefully spinning him around and ripping the bandage right off. “Sam...what the hell is that? That looks...”

“It’s a type of Devil’s Trap.” Sam lifted his hair up so Dean could get a better look. “There’s a few different symbols with that name. One actually does trap demons. This one? This one repels them. With this on me, no demon can get inside me, not even to read my thoughts.” He glanced over his shoulder, honestly amused by Dean’s thunderstruck expression. He hiked up his shirt and tugged his jeans down a little. “Check that one out. That one will keep anything from looking at my soul. I should just be a big blank to any real psychics out there.” He felt the bandage there ripped off. Dean was quiet for so long that Sam had to turn around to make sure he was still there. “Dean? You alright?”

“I dunno, Sam. Seems to me, this whole mess has you pretty freaked out. And I just don’t know how to help you.”

“Oh.” Sam dropped his shirt and tugged his brother to sit on the ground, backs braced against the car he’d abused. “I dunno if I’m really freaked out,” he started, deliberately leaning against Dean. Almost without thinking, Dean slung an arm around his shoulder. Ignoring the signals from his dick, Sam enjoyed the contact. “I mean, sure, it was pretty disgusting to find out that I have demon in me. But the tattoos? They just seemed like common sense to me. I mean, that dream and the spell Bobby did, they made it pretty clear that our fight is against demons. Just made sense to make sure they couldn’t, like, possess me or read my mind. Honestly, I’d feel better if you and dad got the Devil’s Trap inked into you, but I’m not stupid enough to hold my breath over it.”

“Uh huh. So why were you beating ten kinds of hell out of the car? Because you’re so calm and well adjusted and accepting of what happened to you?”

“Because I wasn’t ashamed of it until dad told me there was something to be ashamed of,” Sam snapped, surprising even himself. A little more thoughtfully, he continued, “It wasn’t something that awful, not really. Disgusting, sure, and a little horrifying. But, I mean, it obviously hadn’t done anything to me, so it wasn’t like I had to commit hari kari to purify myself, y’know? But the way he was about it, knowing and not saying a word, and so angry that we’d found out...all of a sudden, it was a huge deal. It wasn’t just something that had been done to me, it was something about me that made him sick, and that I should be ashamed of.”

At that, Dean started tucking whatever bits of Sam that he could into himself, until Sam was wrapped up in as much of Dean as was humanly possible. “That’s not true, and you know it. There’s nothing wrong with you at all, Sammy. Except maybe your feet, because those? Are abnormally huge.”

“They’re not abnormal, Dean, they’re proportional. All of me is,” Sam said, smirking even though his face was mashed up against Dean’s shoulder. Just like his hands and arms were tucked up against his chest and belly, and his legs pulled over his brother’s lap. He was really too large to sit in his big brother’s lap anymore, but he’d be damned before he pointed that out, and Dean was too stubborn to admit that, or even that that’s what he was doing. “What do you think dad’s gonna do now?”

“I think...he’s gonna find a way to kill a demon for good, and then he’s gonna summon this demon and kill it. After that...honestly, Sammy, I dunno.”

“What about you? I mean, it’ll all be over soon. You think you’ll wanna do something else? Stop moving around and maybe, I dunno, work on cars for a living?”

“You’re kidding, right? No way. What we do is important, Sam. And it’s not like the world is overflowing with hunters, y’know. What about you? You gonna...stick with us?”

Sam laughed softly, thinking of all he’d gone through just to get where he was right then. “Dude, try and keep me away. I’ve only just started to really get into this hunting thing. I’m not gonna stop now.”

“That’s my boy!” Dean ruffled his hair, laughing delightedly. His laughter died as the sound of their father’s voice made it to them, calling them back to the house and duty. “Time to get back, I guess.”

“Don’t worry, Dean. We’ll have time to snuggle among the cars another day.” Sam uncoiled and leaped away as Dean swiped at him, both of them laughing now.

“Dude, I wasn’t snuggling!” Dean yowled. “I was–“

“Cuddling, then. It’s okay, your secret is safe with me.” He took off running, his brother hot on his heels. They tumbled out of the junkyard, still laughing and playfully wrestling. Right up until John barked, “Boys! Enough!” sounding pissed that they’d even consider having fun. Sam straightened, but narrowed his eyes, more than a little irritated that their fun had been curtailed. He happened to know that they had years yet to take care of this demon. A few extra minutes wouldn’t have hurt.

“You got something to say, Sam?” John asked, chin thrust out belligerently. 

“You know, I would. Except I know damn well you wouldn’t hear any of it anyway. So what’s the plan?” Beside him, Dean groaned softly and kind of leaned away from him.

“I don’t think I like this attitude of yours, boy. If you think I’m going to let you in on any plan this important when you’re like this, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Sam stared at him. “Fine. You let me know how it works out for ya, then.” He headed towards the house, and when he was past his father, tossed over his shoulder, “And good luck with summoning the right demon without my blood.”

“Sam Winchester, you get your smart mouth back here right now!” John bellowed.

“Dad, I’m not even five feet away from you.”

“Sam, jesus, would you knock off the attitude?” Dean finally snapped at him.

“The magic eight ball says that it’s unlikely.” Sam glared at his dad. “Look, you never want to hear what I’ve got to say. So I’m not saying it, and now you’re gonna be pissed because I’m not saying? Are we seeing a flaw in this logic, here?”

“Yeah, well, maybe this time I want to hear whatever you’ve got on your mind.”

It was entirely possible, Sam realized, that John wanted him to bitch about him having known about the blood and not said anything. That way John could very carefully explain and justify, without having to really apologize. “Fine. Is it really necessary to cut off every last bit of fun we have?” He gestured at Dean. “I mean, seriously, Dad. An extra couple of minutes would not have actually made a single bit of difference. When we die, is it going to be how quickly we could snap to attention that you’ll look back on and remember fondly, or is it going to be how we sound when we laugh, and what our smiles look like?”

“You’re not going to die, Sam, Christ!” John yelled. “What the hell are you thinking, talking like that?”

“I’m thinking...that it’s fairly clear that I’ve been marked. Why me and for what, we don’t know. But who knows what it can do to me, thanks to the blood it put inside me? And hell, even ignoring that, even saying we come out the other side of this fight all alive and intact, the next time we might not be so lucky. I might get strangled with a lamp cord by a poltergeist or something. Dean could get eaten by a wendigo. The point is, you don’t know. So an extra couple of minutes of letting us of have fun...is that really so much to ask? Because seriously, what’s gonna be your favorite memory if one of us dies?” John just gaped at him, and Sam shook his head. “See? I didn’t think you’d actually wanna hear it. So just tell us the plan so we can kill this son of a bitch. I don’t really wanna be some demon’s bitch or whatever.”

“Uh...right. Bobby thinks he has a line on this gun. It’s a special gun, made by Samuel Colt himself. They say that it can kill anything....” Sam partially tuned out what his father was saying, keeping track of only those few pertinent details that he’d need later. He had to seriously wonder at what was wrong with him. He comes back in time, has this wonderful second chance, and he uses it to...fight with his dad. Never mind that even now, he still felt guilty for the way things were between them when his dad died. But in a way, that’s what was driving him, he realized. He did have a second chance, and he wasn’t going to get a third, and he didn’t want things to end with them at each other’s throats, or him resenting the hell out of his dad. He was used to the secrets, and the stupid need to know only basis his father worked on. Mostly. But his drill sergeant attitude, that acted like they had to be at attention at all times, even when they weren’t on the hunt? It sucked the life and fun out of every moment, and would do nothing but leave them with a bitter taste in their mouths, regardless of which of them died first.

Sam should know; he’d seen them both dead, or as good as, before him.

There was no waiting with the plan. And the plan itself was pretty simple. They would retrieve the Colt. Once they had the Colt, they would summon the yellow-eyed demon and shoot him. No muss, no fuss, a complete no-brainer. 

Not much time was wasted after John briefed them. Bobby was going to be preparing a room for them, as well as what they’d need to summon the demon, while they were on the road. They grabbed a quick meal and then left, Sam happily taking up residence in the back seat, where he could lay on his stomach, feet waving in the air, and keep pressure off the tattoo on his back. He was remarkably relaxed, at least in comparison to his father and brother. Of course, he had the advantage of having seen this bastard dead once already. He knew it wasn’t all powerful, and he knew the gun could actually kill him. There were no doubts hiding in the back of his mind, like there probably were for the other two. But he could tell, from the little looks that he caught every now and then, that his relaxation was bothering them. But he just couldn’t help it. The second he’d gotten into the back seat, it had been like stepping into the past. Ironic, but there you go. He’d finally felt it, that this was his history. He was back in his childhood, and the back seat, where he’d spent so many long hours on the road, listening to dad and Dean talk, or to music, or just the rumble of the car, evoked a sense of safety and security that he’d been without for far too long. He’d never really doubted his safety as a child, and here and now, he had that same confidence back. It was hard to be anything but relaxed, under these conditions.

It was a long ride to Colorado from South Dakota. Granted, they’d had longer ones, and there’d been a time or three that they’d had to go literally from one end of the country to the other. But crammed in the back seat somehow made the ride even longer. Because God forbid Sam get a turn to drive. Leg cramps, it turned out, wore the shiny off of nostalgia really quick. 

To make the whole experience even worse, Daniel Elkins, while remembering their dad and seemingly sympathetic to their plight, claimed no knowledge of the Colt. Despite all of dad’s arguing and pleading, the old man stayed firm in his denials. Hours, dad tried to crack the guy, and nothing. Finally, angry and frustrated and afraid, although he’d never admit to that, John ordered him and Dean back to the car, stalking out ahead of them. Dean followed, slouching out the door with a sullen glare for the old man. Sam hesitated, studying the old man before leaving. He’d never known Daniel Elkins in his first life. Had only learned of him after his death, and then only because Dean had recalled his name from their father’s journal. What he saw now was a frightened old man, hunkering down in his house like a soldier ready for a siege. Too old to defend himself against the things that he knew were out there, the things he’d spent his life hunting, and he knew it. So he was clutching onto that gun like a life line, an insurance policy against any of those things coming to hunt him.

“It won’t work, you know,” Sam said quietly. “Hoarding the Colt. You keep it locked up, safe and sound in your house, and you think it’s gonna save you one day. It won’t.” He met the old man’s eyes, pretty sure that his own were burning with what he knew. “They’re not extinct, the vampires you’ve hunted. And when they come for you, they’ll hit you so fast and hard you won’t see them coming. They’ll come through the doors and windows, through the damn roof, and you won’t have time to open the safe, much less fire the gun. It won’t save you.”

“What...are you talking about, boy? You don’t know anything. And I don’t have it.”

“What I know is how you die. I can see things, sometimes. I know things. Your death is one of those things, and you’ll die here in agony, all alone. That gun won’t do you a damn bit of good. Keep it, I guess. We’ll wait until you die, and when that happens, we’ll pick over your house like scavengers and take it anyway.”

Some shred of what Elkins used to be stiffened his spine. “Is that supposed to charm me into giving you what you want? Because I hafta tell ya, boy, it ain’t working.”

“Charm? You want charm, you see my brother.” Sam glanced at the door, knowing that his family was out there, wondering what the hell he was up to. And they wouldn’t wait very long. “Let me tell you what I have to offer you: truth. I can tell you what I know. What I know is that on the night of my sixth month birthday, this demon with the yellow eyes came into my home, and into my nursery. He opened up his wrist and dripped blood into my mouth, tainting me and marking me for the rest of my life. I know, even if my father doesn’t, that there are other children like me out there, and that the demon has plans of some kind for us. And I know that whatever those plans are, they can’t mean anything good for anyone else. The only thing that will kill it is that Colt. With it, we can summon it and kill it and whatever plans it has, will be null and void, useless without him. Now, what I don’t know is this: are you a hunter, willing to do anything to fight evil, or are you a frightened old man, hiding from the dark?”

“What the hell are you, boy? You ain’t no kid,” Elkins muttered.

“I haven’t been a kid for a very long time. But I am a hunter. How about you?”

“Wait here,” he was told. Elkins shuffled out of the room, shaking his head and muttering to himself. Sam heard his name being called from outside and resolutely ignored it. He needed that gun, and if Elkins wasn’t going to fetch it, Sam would just have to himself. And damn the questions such an action would raise. But he needn’t have worried, because a minute later, Elkins shuffled back in, carrying a wooden box. He set it on the table beside the front door and opened it. Sam released a breath at the sight, reaching out to run a reverent finger along the length of the barrel. “Six bullets left,” Elkins informed him. “Only six, and the secret to making them dead with their creator. Don’t waste them.”

“Oh, we won’t. This right here will stop a war.” Sam held out his hand, pleased when it was taken. “Thank you, Mr. Elkins. I can’t begin to tell you how much we really needed this gun.” He closed the box and tucked it under his arm. “Oh, and vampires aren’t extinct, you know. A female named...Kate, I think. If that name means anything to you. And her mate Luthor. Just to give you a heads up. Just don’t tell my dad. He’ll wanna know how I know, and I really can’t tell him. You know how dads are,” he finished, rolling his eyes. Seemingly in spite of himself, Daniel Elkins smiled. “Thank you again, Mr. Elkins. You ever need help with anything? You call on any one of us. We pay our debts.”

As Sam followed his brother and father outside, he opened the box again, concealing the action from the old hunter behind him with his body. He palmed one of the bullets, knowing just who it was meant for. They were at the car, leaning against it, and dad looked seriously pissed off. “It’s about time,” he started, and then stopped, eyes fastened on the box. “Is that...”

“The Colt,” Sam confirmed. They both stared at him. “What? Man, we all know your people skills kind of suck sometimes.” He batted his eyes at them, making Dean laugh, and the issue of his success in the face of dad’s failure was dropped.

Time seemed to speed up, then. Even the drive back didn’t seem to take so long, and before he knew it, Sam was standing beside Dean, staring down at a symbol drawn on Bobby’s living room floor in his blood. They were flanking their father, and all three of them had an antique Colt. Dean, actually, had the real one. But if it knew anything about them, it would assume that John would have it, and would take that one away first. Giving Dean time to get the shot off. And if that didn’t work....hopefully the Devil’s Trap that Sam had drawn on the ceiling would. He didn’t know if the yellow-eyed demon was actually too powerful to be contained by that, when it wasn’t made out of iron, giving it a that extra little double whammy.

Between one instant and the next, the demon was standing there. In the same bland, blue collar every-man body that he’d been using before, and Sam really had to pity the poor schlub. God only knew how long he’d already been possessed, if the damn thing was using his body this early in the game. He looked faintly surprised, and then, after glancing over all three of them, faintly amused. His eyes lingered a bit on Sam, narrowing a little. The tattoo on the back of his neck heated up, but Sam kept his face carefully blank. Just like that, the sensation was gone and the demon was focusing on dad.

“Hello, Johnny. How ya doin’?” He paced in towards them, stopping just shy of the symbol on the ceiling. “I have to admit, I am surprised that you would call on me. You must be desperate for something.”

“Only to see you dead,” John said grimly, raising his colt. Sam did the same, followed instantly by Dean. The demon started to laugh as the gun their dad held flew from his hands. Sam fired, distracting the bastard long enough for Dean to get a shot through his heart. 

It was all very anticlimactic. No grand battle, no fight to save the world. Just them, blind siding the bastard with a weapon he hadn’t realized they had. Eighteen years, and it was over just that quickly, and that easily. Sam could see that his father was having a hard time believing it. So was Dean, the two of them looking almost blank. Sam hung back as they approached the body, complete with smoking bullet hole through the heart. This was their moment, not his. 

Dean and John stood over the body, staring at it in silence for several minutes. Then Sam heard Dean snarl, “That was for mom, you son of a bitch!” John slung an arm over his shoulder, and just that easily, the pair were hugging, their shared grief over a woman Sam had never known binding them in this moment in a way that Sam could never be part of. Instead, he quietly picked up all the guns from where nerveless fingers had dropped them, and slipped out the door.

Bobby was outside, tense and unhappy beside an almost vibrating Rumsfeld, kept from barking his head off only by Bobby’s hand on his head. “It’s done?” he asked, fingers twitching around the shotgun he held.

“Yeah. You got a tarp or a blanket or something? We should burn the body....” Sam sank down onto the steps, the guns clattering to the ground beside him. “Holy fucking Christ, Bobby.”

The other man came to him, squeezing his shoulder, and not saying a word when Sam had to bury his face in his thigh to hide tears. Sam shuddered his way back to something resembling self control, and sat back. “Fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I can’t even imagine how this has gotta be for you,” Bobby mumbled, scratching the back of his neck and readjusting his hat, looking everywhere but actually at him. “Got it done six years earlier, and with a lot less dead. That’s nothin’ to sneeze at.”

“Yeah...we really do need to burn the body. I don’t know how long this guy was possessed, but I really don’t wanna find out what his spirit would be like. Poor bastard deserves some peace.” He got to his feet, feeling altogether too creaky for an eighteen year old’s body. Which just proved the old saying that you’re only as old as you feel. “Put those someplace safe, would you?” he muttered, nodding down at the antique guns, the Colt somehow thrumming with a promise the other two didn’t have.

“I’ve got a good place for all of ‘em,” Bobby assured him. “There’s sheets folded in the back of my truck. I’ll take care of these while you go get them.” 

The pair of them moved with surprising efficiency, taking care of what needed to be taken care of. It was a difficult facet of this line of work, and an unavoidable one, that there were sometimes human casualties. You could shoot a werewolf in the heart with a silver bullet, but you couldn’t forget that until they’d been bitten, and for all the days of the month and most nights too, they were human. It wasn’t actually their fault that they turned into a monster, and killing the monster killed the human. Sometimes, there were bodies that weren’t all that old to burn. Like now. Whoever this man had been, Sam could only hope that his spirit was actually at peace somewhere. But salting and burning him would make sure that he wouldn’t be sticking around. Sam wrapped him in the sheets from the back of Bobby’s truck while Bobby was securing the Colt. If he was smart, he was stashing the other two as decoys around the house, as well.

Bobby returned about the time that Sam was tying a knot in the ends of the sheet, to prevent any flapping from occurring. Dad and Dean had sort of drifted away and wound up on Bobby’s sofa with a bottle of whiskey. Sam had poked his head in, only to hear dad murmuring a memory of their mother, burning pancakes of all things. The sort of memory Sam had always craved, and never gotten. He wanted to be angry that dad was sharing it now, while Sam wasn’t there. But this was their victory celebration, and they could spend it as they liked.

Bobby helped him carry the body out to his truck as the sun was setting. Leaving Rumsfeld to guard the place and the pair of drinkers in their absence, they drove over dirt roads and rutted tracks to a clearing in the ass end of nowhere. They were so far from anyone that Sam had not the slightest fear of being caught. Unusual, because he generally felt some sort of anxiety when they were dealing with human remains. That sort of thing was almost impossible to explain.

A grave was dug with a minimum of fuss and the body thoroughly salted and lit up. Sam felt very little need to watch it burn, and threw himself to the ground nearby, face turned up towards the sky. Bobby sat down beside him somewhat more carefully and offered him a flask. Assuming it wasn’t holy water, Sam accepted it and tossed down a couple fast swallows. “So what are you gonna do now?” Bobby asked, taking back the flask for his own drink.

“You mean, aside from finding time to get away and deal with that crossroads bitch?” Sam said wryly. “Whatever Dean does.” Bobby raised his eyebrows at him, so Sam explained. “Look, the man spent his whole life saving my ass and doing whatever he could to take care of me, give me what I wanted. So now it’s his turn.”

“So you’re going to sacrifice yourself, waste this second chance you’ve got, catering to Dean? You think he’d want that?”

Sam stared at him, surprised by the heat in his voice. “Dude,” he said finally. “Relax, would you? I’m hardly gonna spend the rest of my life giving him foot rubs and bringing him breakfast in bed. Dean’s really a simple guy. So long as he’s got his family and life on the road, he’s happy. So I’ll just do what I was doing before my little trip through time: I’ll stick with him. It’s nothing like a sacrifice on my part, Bobby.”

“Sam...it’s all over. You aren’t in danger anymore. You said you went to college. It’s only been a week, you could go back and finish highschool, get into college again. Don’t you want your girl back?”

“Nope.” Sam laid down, wondering how to explain himself. “It’s...Bobby, the boy that went off to Stanford, that made all those normal friends, that fell in love with Jess...he’s gone, Bobby. I’m far less idealistic than I used to be. Less naive. And my morals are much looser than they were. I’m not sure I’m the type of guy that Jess would love anymore. And I really doubt that I’m the type of guy that could sit through hours of boring fucking lectures on things that aren’t, in fact, all that important. I love my brother, and I even love my father, stubborn ass that he is. I wanna stay with them.” He looked over to see Bobby smiling faintly. “Does that make sense?”

“Yup, I s’pose it does.” No more was said for a while as they waited for the body to burn itself out. Sam’s mind turned to hunts gone by/yet to come, and to wondering about his visions. As well as the other psychic kids. It was kind of cool that they were all pretty much guaranteed a long life now, barring random accidents. And then he remembered Max.  
“Hey, Bobby, I know I’ve laid a lot on your doorstep here. And I hope you know how much I appreciate it. But there’s one more thing I’d like to ask you to do.”

“I won’t promise anything, but go ahead.”

“There’s a boy. Well, a few, actually. They’re eighteen, and they’re like me. Psychics whose moms got killed by that yellow eyed son of a bitch. A couple, twins, got split up. And one who should have been taken away. His dad saw what happened, just like mine. Only his dad didn’t turn to revenge, even though he saw what happened. He turned to the bottle,” Sam told him softly. “The bottle, and taking it out of his son’s hide. He and his brother beat that kid pretty bad his whole damn life. You ever seen a dog that’s been kicked one too many times?”

“Sure have,” Bobby told him, sounding grim. “An’ it’s always the dog that gets the blame for bein’ vicious. No good. That happen with this kid?”

“Yeah, a little. See, his powers turned out to be telekinesis. And he used it to kill his father and uncle.” Sam laughed a little, thinking of how very creative Max had been. Possibly still would be, really. There was no reason to think his powers wouldn’t activate anyway, seeing as how he still had demon blood in him. That hadn’t gone away just because they’d won. “Dean was so bent on reassuring me that I wasn’t gonna get all twisted that he made Max to be just as bad as his dad and uncle. But Max...he was just tired of being afraid. He ended up killing himself to end it. I’d kinda like for you to pay him and his family a visit. I’d go with, but I’m gonna have a hard enough time getting away once, to deal with the crossroads demon. I’m not sure I could manage twice. You’d be saving him from four years of pretty severe abuse, Bobby.”

“No problem. You remember the address?”

“Sure. I’ll write it down for you before we leave. And the other two, well, one of ‘em ends up in some really shitty foster homes. I know he’s out now, but maybe being reunited with his brother will help out. Make him less vulnerable to the dark side of the force. It’d be great, if you could....I mean, these two, their power lets them control people. That’s not something we need going dark, ya know? Anyway, I think Dead Fred over there is just about out.”

“Dead Fred?” Bobby said incredulously.

“What? Gotta call him something. ‘S good as anything.” Shrugging and grinning, Sam got up to start filling in the hole.

Dean and dad were asleep, maybe passed out, on the couch when they got back. The bottle of whiskey lay empty by their feet, and they leaned up against each other, heads tilted back and mouths open to emit nearly identical drunken snores. Sam laughed softly, he couldn’t help it. Bobby wasn’t quite as amused, but he did snort on his way to the shower. Which was better than yelling and stomping, or reaching for the shotgun. All of which Bobby had been prone to do in relation or reaction to John Winchester. Sam snapped a picture with his cell, smiling to himself. Maybe now...maybe now, these kinds of scenes could become commonplace. Who knew?  
~

Sam had never thought he’d be grateful for his father’s ability, inherited by Dean, to drink on and off for days at a time. The pair of them were on a serious bender. Sam had been invited to join them, but he’d always be a lightweight, and his scrawny ass couldn’t even come close at the moment. Besides, he really couldn’t handle his dad’s ‘do you remembers’ to Dean, bringing up some detail that a four year old may or may not recall, but a six month old never would. Sam thought that they were finally grieving, mourning Mary Winchester as they hadn’t let themselves for eighteen years. 

Of course, if they got to the point where they weren’t showering, Sam was definitely gonna step in.

But that was for later. For now, he was at a crossroads, and he had a gun tucked up under his jacket with a special bullet. He knelt in the center and dug, making a hole for the small box to be buried. The response was swift, once he’d filled in the hole. 

“Well, you’re a little younger than my usual clients,” a soft, sultry voice drawled. “But you are cute.” Sam stood, crossing his arms like he was nervous, and studied her. If it weren’t for the unnaturally black eyes, he’d think she was beautiful. Tall and willowy, with dark hair tumbling down her back in glossy waves. She had on a black evening dress that swished around her ankles as she walked towards him. Whoever the host woman was, Sam deeply regretted her death already. There was just something about her face that told him she liked to laugh. “I’m sure we both know why we’re here, so let’s skip the shy routine, sweety. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure. What can you do for me? I mean, is there a limit to your powers?” She started to pace around him, a cat circling prey, and he turned to follow her movements. “Can you bring back the dead?”

“Naturally. In fact, a deal with someone like me is the only way to really bring someone back. Otherwise, all you end up with is an animated corpse or a zombie. And they are not fun to bring to a party. So,” she paused, hip jutting out. “Who do you want brought back, Sam Winchester?”

“Who do you think? My mom,” he said, letting his voice catch on the last word. “Dad and Dean...they’re not happy. They’ll never be happy, without her. But if she came back....could you do that? After so long?”

“Sure can, sugar. And I’ll even throw in ten years for you, ten long years, to get to know mommy dearest.” She looked surprised when Sam shook his head.

“Oh no, that won’t work. You know who my father is. He’d know, he’d know, and there’d be no rest then. They can’t remember that she was ever dead. That’s what I really meant about a limit. Would you be able to alter their memories so that–they believed it was me that died that night, instead of her?”

The demon was silent for so long that Sam began to fear that she’d leave, that she’d sensed something was fishy and was gonna hightail it. She sealed her deals with a kiss, and he needed her that close to be sure he’d make his kill. She was fast, and the second she saw the Colt, she’d be out of there. But he didn’t have to worry, she started to smile and come closer. “I can. You’d have to stay away. Unless....are you going to give up your soul tonight? Forfeit your ten years?”

“Yeah. Of course, I’ll want something...extra, for giving that up. Like, say, a promise of good health and long lives for all three of them. I mean, there won’t be any heart trouble or cancer or so much as a fucking car accident in their futures. They’re to live charmed lives from here on out. That shouldn’t be too difficult for you, if you can bring back a woman eighteen years dead and gone.”

“Done. Now, to seal the deal,” she murmured, obscenely greedy. Her hands reached for his head, and even with the high heels, she had to stand on her toes and pull his head down to reach his mouth. Just before their lips touched, he smiled. He uncrossed his arms, the Colt a dull gleam in his right hand. He touched the barrel to her chest, right over her heart, and fired. She didn’t even have time to be surprised. Blue lightening crackled over her body, and she twitched a little, and then she was collapsing, black eyes faded back to a soft brown and gone blank. Sam caught her, whoever she’d been, and eased her to the ground. She really had been beautiful.

Sam walked over to Bobby’s truck, borrowed for the occasion to avoid any chance that he’d get blood in the Impala. Even hung over, Dean could be annoyingly observant of things like that. Inside were more of the same sheets they’d used for Dead Fred. He got them and wrapped her up, hands smoothing over her hair without his permission. She looked like Madison, he realized. Then shunted that thought off to the side, hard, and made himself go about the rest of his business.

He took her to the same clearing that they’d burned and buried Dead Fred in. He’d already dug the grave, and now he lowered her in, whispering a prayer in Latin. He doused her in salt and kerosene and tossed in a lit match. 

She burned much faster than Fred had, for some reason.

~

A shadow blocked out the sun, prompting Sam to open his eyes. Dean stood over him, checking out the set up he had: the small cooler filled with ice and sodas, the thin blanket protecting his back from a too warm car hood, and the radio playing softly on the roof of the car. The rusted out Ford was servicing him once again, and once again, Dean had tracked him down at it. “Dude, you’re blocking my light,” he pointed out.

“Sam, you’ve got sunglasses and a t-shirt on. It’s not like you’re gonna get much of a tan this way.” Dean hopped up next to him, weight rocking the car and nearly sending his sodas sliding right off. “What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“Just relaxing, man. Some fresh air, a little music, what more could you want?” Sam snagged a can, passing it over. Dean, he saw, didn’t open it, just rolled it between his palms. “Sorry, I don’t have any beer,” he said dryly.

Dean turned a little green. “Yeah, I don’t really want a beer. I may have actually had enough for a while.”

“Aw, man, are you possessed? I told you you should get the tattoo.” Laughing, Sam took the punch to the shoulder that was his due. “Seriously, though, you alright?”

“I came to ask you the same thing. You haven’t really been around much, Sam.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not so much into pickling my liver.” He shrugged, turning his face back to the sky. Summer weather already; they were in for a hot summer, if he remembered right. “Besides, this was more your and dad’s fight than mine. You kind of deserved to celebrate how you wanted.”

“Whaddya mean....”

“You two remember her. I don’t, Dean. It’s just that simple. Until I had that dream, we didn’t even know it had been interested in me. So far as we knew, it was all about mom. I’ve always had...a hard time, getting really angry over what happened to her. I was, but it wasn’t personal. I’d have been just as angry over any person’s death. It was different.”

“Yeah, well....it was still your fight, too. She was still your mother. She loved you.”

“I’m sure she did. I’m not saying otherwise, Dean. I just...I think you two needed to grieve. And I didn’t, okay? I made my peace with her being gone a long time ago. How ‘bout you?” Sam nudged him with an elbow. “You okay with things?”

“Of course! Dude, what? You think I’m not happy that the fight’s over with?”

“I think that you’re probably wondering what the hell we’re supposed to do now. Dad’s always implied that when it was over...it was gonna be all over.” He cut his eyes to the side, concealed by the sunglasses. Dean was rolling that can between his palms and studying it like the secrets to the universe were gonna be revealed. What he wasn’t doing, was looking at Sam. Sam nudged him again, a smile ready when he looked over. “You’re gonna keep hunting, right? I’ll need someone to watch my back. I mean, you said you would, but that was before it really was all over, so maybe you’ve changed your mind...ack!” Sam glared up at his brother from where he’d landed on the ground. “What was that for, you ass?”

“That was for you being so stupid. I can’t believe you thought I’d change my mind.” Dean stared down at him. “You look good down there.” Sam’s eyebrows shot up, surprised that Dean, this younger Dean, would say something like that. “Man, don’t you ever blush anymore?” he laughed. But there was an edge of unease to the laugh that Sam found very interesting. He knew damn well that Dean had been interested in him as a lover since Sam had been about sixteen. Dean had told him so. Maybe he could get Dean back like that. 

Letting his lids drop halfway, Sam shifted to his knees right in front of his brother, letting his sunglasses slip down his nose. Once upon a time, it was a look that would have had him flat on his back in under ten seconds. Now? Now, he noticed what he wouldn’t have had he really been eighteen; a fine layer of sweat starting up at Dean’s hairline, the quickening pulse at the base of his throat, and the rising bulge at his crotch, quickly concealed with a strategic placement of the soda can. “I dunno, Dean. I think you’ll have to try a lot harder to get me worked up,” he drawled.

“Sam....”

Sam planted a hand on either side of Dean’s hips and boosted himself up to stand, half bent over his brother. “Dean...I love that you came out here to check on me. I’m okay, really. I’m happy that we’re free, that it’s over. All I really want now? Is for us to work on being happy. Doing what we like, hunting down bad things, and having a good time. So you tell me what you want. Really. What do you want the most, right here and now? If I can, I’ll give it to you.”

“Sam...”

“You want Sam? You should have said so sooner, man. He’s all yours.” Boldly, Sam cupped Dean’s cheeks and brought their mouths together. It was possibly the world’s worst kiss in the history of ever. Dean yelped and jumped the second their lips connected, bumping their noses together and dropping the can of soda, which rolled off the car to the ground, where it began to spray cola all over Sam’s legs. “Smooth, Dean. No wonder you’re such a lady’s man,” he said dryly, rubbing his sore nose.

“Shut up! Jeez, what did you expect, just kissing me like that? A little warning or something might be nice. And-and hey! What’s the deal with kissing me, anyway?” Dean blustered, flustered and trying to recover.

“Dean, you can’t tell me that you don’t wanna fuck me. I’ve seen you looking.” Dean flushed and looked down, obviously ashamed. “Damn it, don’t do that. Don’t feel bad for that, Dean. You think you’re the only one? God, I can’t believe you missed the way I look at you.” He snagged one of Dean’s hands and brought it to his groin. “I want you. I don’t give a shit about what anyone would say if they knew. I want you, you want me. We can have this. Please, Dean. Let us have this?”

“Aw, hell. I come out here, thinking you’re all brooding over some dumb thing, and you....”

“Randomly seduce you?” Sam offered. “I’d say it was good timing. We’ve got nothing else to worry about anymore. I bet even dad is gonna have us split up into two teams when we get back on the road.” Grinning, he rubbed his dick against the hand still covering his crotch, loving the way Dean’s eyes widened. “Lots and lots of privacy to explore...this. What do you say?”

“It’s wrong, Sam. We’re brothers, we can’t do this. We can’t!”

“The hell we can’t. We don’t live by anyone else’s rules or standards. You are my brother, and my best friend, and I want you to be my lover, too. Yeah, it’s probably a good idea to keep this from dad. But I don’t even know what normal is, not really. So why the hell should we follow normal rules?” He reached out to lay his hand over Dean’s groin, noticing but not pointing out that Dean kept his hand right where it was. Dean was hard beneath his palm; just as hard as he was. He wanted this too, he just wasn’t sure he was allowed to want it. Sam brought his other hand up to grip the back of Dean’s neck. “Let’s do it, Dean. We’re free to do what we want now. I want this, and you want this, so let’s just do it,” he whispered, breath feathering over Dean’s lips, moist and warm, and Dean opened his lips as though to taste it. Sam took his chance, bringing their lips together and sliding his tongue into his brother’s mouth. 

Dean gave in with a groan, deepening the kiss, hands creeping up to get firm holds on Sam’s shoulders. Then Sam was tilting and falling, but not very far. Just to the hood of the car again, with the blanket offering scant cushion beneath him and Dean a heavy, welcome weight on top of him. It was fast, and messy, and Sam was pretty sure his tail bone ended up bruised. It was also so completely perfect that he didn’t know how to cope, getting this back when he’d been sure he’d given it up by coming back. He couldn’t have Jess or college, he hadn’t even been able to finish highschool. But he got to keep Dean, and that was what was most important.


End file.
